


The origin of the world

by emmadelosnardos



Series: Peer consultation [2]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Anatomy Lessons, F/M, From Sex to Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time Mary Phinney spends the night in Jedediah Foster's room, she gets more than she expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The origin of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).



> "L'Origine du monde" is an 1866 painting by Gustave Courbet, unfortunately too modern for Doctor Foster to have seen in his sojourns in France, but nevertheless an inspiration for this story.

“Miss Green wanted an anatomy lesson,” Mary told Jed later that night, after they had made love and they lay in his bed together, their limbs loose and tangled. “She wanted to know why the prostitutes were getting sore.”

“When was this?” Jed asked.

“A few weeks ago.” Mary shifted on the bed, rubbed her cheek against his.

“And what did you tell her?” They spoke softly lest anyone hear them.

“I told her the truth,” Mary answered. “I believe it shocked her, but she wanted to hear it.” She looked over at him in the half-light of dusk, noticed how pale his bare chest was, how soft his hands were on her hips.

“What I would have given to be a fly on the wall in that conversation,” Jed said, stifling back a laugh. “I bet you were very solemn, and she was very earnest.” He kissed her gently, affectionately, as if they had lain together thus many times before, so casual in their regard for each other, so relaxed in each other’s bodies.

“More or less,” Mary said. “But – only – it’s a pity young women are so ill-informed. That they enter marriage knowing nothing of ---” she waved her hand between the two of them “—of _this.”_

“And you are sure that you are entirely well-informed yourself, Baroness von Olnhausen?” He interlaced his fingers in her own and began to draw a circle on the pad of her thumb. How was it that the slightest touch from him could make her tremble? That, even after feeling him inside her, she wanted him again? They had only been together on two other occasions, and already she wanted to repeat this third time, make it a fourth, a fifth, never leave his quarters.

The first time she had gone to him in his room was the afternoon they received word of the Union Victory at Gettysburg. Jed had asked her to accompany him upstairs as he fetched a newspaper, and she had felt like a naughty child as they snuck up to his quarters together. In the midst of a raucous celebration that lasted well past nightfall, their absence on the wards had gone unnoticed. Once the door to his room was shut, he had kissed her first and she had kissed him back, enervated by the day’s victory and by the observation that he had not taken his eyes from her all week. They had made love hurriedly, recklessly, and he had pressed her with his eyes to say more, to give him some reassurance or promise that this would last. But she had refused to spend the night.

They had not met alone again for several months, when it was another battle – Antietam, a draw – and the commotion surrounding it that gave them the courage to meet for a brief hour in his room.

Now it was no battle, no sudden rush of patients, but rather a lull in the fighting and a break in the constant stream of casualties that had brought them together a third time. That afternoon Jed had caught her wrist as she passed next to him in the officers’ ward. He had whispered curtly, “Come to my room later,” and she had nodded at him, too surprised to speak. She had spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous anticipation, worried lest others might read her thoughts and see by the look on her face what kind of woman she was.

Their previous rendezvous had been unplanned and could have been considered the product of a momentary _folie à deux,_ a mutual loss of judgment that resulted in their unexpected coupling. By planning this third meeting, Mary realized, their relationship became more solid, more defined, less deniable. Jed was her lover – her lover! She, who had been married late, at 25; she who had scared off the boys with her Latin and French and her fierce temper; she who had thought to wear widow’s weeds forever – she, Mary Phinney, paragon of Yankee virtue, now had a lover – and a married man, no less!

Jed rose and lit the lamp at the bedside. “Lie back,” he said, sliding off the bed in front of her. She rested on her elbows and looked down at him where he knelt on the floor. “Now open your legs,” he instructed.

“Jed—” she protested.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said with a grin. “Please, Mary.” He guided her knees open and gazed upon her. “The mons Venus, the mound of Venus—” he began, touching her there where her dark curls began.

“I know what a mons Venus is,” she snapped. “I’ve read Summers’ books. Is this an anatomical lesson or--?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is a lesson in anatomy, of sorts.” He continued slowly, deliberately, spreading her legs wider. “Ah, good. Here it is – the vulva, the origin of the world; God’s gift to—”

“Jed,” she warned, rising up on her hands to look him in the eyes.

“—women,” he ended mildly. “God’s gift to women.” He moved his fingers down further, gently spreading her cheeks. “And here are the labia majora and minora—,” touching them softly, opening her further as he looked up at her. Mary felt her breath come quickly now, watching him touch her. “So beautiful,” he continued, “and I can see that you are wet already.” He put one finger inside her and she fell back upon the bed.

“Jed,” she whispered, turning her head around to see him again. “What are you doing?” Surely this was more intentional than the other times they had made love; surely this was not a momentary lapse in judgment. These were not the actions of a man who intended to put her aside without more ado. Rather, this felt playful, like a game between long-accustomed lovers.

“I am cataloging your magnificent body,” he said. “All of it, every fold and every movement.” He inhaled. “You smell divine, by the way.” She closed her knees around his head, pushed him away with her hands. She squirmed half-heartedly as if she wanted to get away from him, but she let him continue to stroke her with his fingers.

Yet she was suddenly embarrassed for him to see her thus; it was not like earlier, when he had lifted her skirts and snaked his fingers under her drawers and stroked her to a high pitch before pulling her clothes down to swiftly enter her. He had steadily moved inside her until her climax rose up within, then had pulled out and spent himself on the bedsheets. The overall impression had been of hasty, if competent, love-making. Now it was different. Now he examined her by lamplight, now he looked up to her for approval as he pried her legs open another time.

“And _this_ ,” he said, moving his moist finger upwards, most softly and gently. “ _This_ is the clitoris.” His finger returned to that divine spot and, as she had been before, she was suddenly grateful for his familiarity with the female form, even if it pained her to wonder how he had acquired it. Jed's fingers were rubbing loose circles around her clitoris, her labia, now faster, now slower. She felt her shoulders sink more deeply into the bedclothes and let her hips settle into the mattress against his mouth. Her eyes closed, she did not see when he replaced his fingers with his lips.

He was exquisitely careful to touch her only with his mouth, placing his fingers between his beard and her quim, and continuing to work his tongue in a steady rhythm against her. Her only thoughts were _how come she had never : how come this was within her and she had not known : how come he knew such things : and would he do it again and again : and what else might she learn from him : and when could they meet again?_

It was as if no other part of her body existed, as if her entire self were caught there against his mouth, and she felt her body move steadily and forcefully towards its peak. She bit her lips to hold back the shout she wished to make; she had no wish for Matron Brannan or Nurse Hastings to hear them. And then some devil within her wanted to shout out, wanted the whole hospital to know that she was in Doctor Foster’s bed and he was doing unspeakable things to her.

“And _that_ is la petite mort _,_ ” he said matter-of-factly, once she had come down from her climax.

“Is that what it’s called?” she asked faintly, still feeling the tremors in her hips, her groin.

“Some call it that,” Jed answered. “Others call it – other things.”

“And what is it called, the thing you did to me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light but failing. She still felt her body aglow and desirous.

“There are many terms,” he answered. “Though I think the most scientific is 'cunnilingus.' Which, frankly, sounds awful – though the act itself is quite rewarding to giver and receiver alike. ”

“Would you – would you like me to do the same?” she asked him timidly.

“It is the sweetest sensation imaginable,” he said, “Barring, of course, one other. But no, Mary – not tonight. I’m afraid I completely wore myself out earlier inside your lovely cunt.”

“Jed,” Mary said sharply, both pleased and annoyed by the vulgarity of his language, “Is this how you speak to all your lovers?”

“I’ve been told I have a gilded tongue,” he answered slyly. And then, in puzzlement: “Pray, what other lovers would I have?”

“I thought—” Mary began. She was confused; she was hopeful. His wife was so far away; Eliza had said that he needed to choose between their marriage and the War, and Jed had chosen the War…

He took her hand. “You thought I did this – with others?” He stared at her intensely and then grew serious. “No. I am afraid most of my knowledge comes from books. For something at least my medical studies have served me.”

“Then _this_ –” Mary began, trying to find the words. “I mean – Jed – this is no longer an error in judgment. This is no longer the heat of the moment overcoming us. This is – we are – this has become something else.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He gripped her hand and kissed her temple. “It can be whatever you want it to be,” he whispered.

“No, it cannot be whatever I want it to be,” she said sadly, feeling his arms around her. “But perhaps here, in your room – perhaps we might pretend it is something more?”

“It already is,” Jed told her. “Oh, sweet Molly – how I wish --!” He trailed off.

“Hush,” she said. “Do not speak of it. I am sorry I asked you. I will not mention it again.”

They lay together in silence for a while, and then Jed turned towards her. “I wish the War would never end,” he said, so softly she could scarcely hear him. “I wish we might always be together, thus.”

“The War _will_ end,” she reminded him.

“Then I will be finished,” he said simply, holding out his hands to hers. “And so I cannot but help that it will not be so. Stay a while longer with me, Mary. Spend the night – come again – I want –” His voice rose above a whisper.

“Hush, Jedediah,” Mary said. “I will stay the night.”

**Author's Note:**

> Although I fear it's a far stretch to imagine Mary Phinney embarking on an adulterous affair, I wanted to set this scene within the confines of Mansion House and the story as we've seen it thus far. That, and this scene just would not fit within my "Valvèd Voice" universe.


End file.
